


Lifetime of a Landlady

by Elwyne



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-24
Updated: 2017-04-24
Packaged: 2018-10-23 08:03:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,622
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10715460
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elwyne/pseuds/Elwyne
Summary: The perspective of an inestimable lady.





	Lifetime of a Landlady

_1881_

The knock at the door was sharp, impatient, and it rattled the flimsy thing on its hinges. With a sigh Mrs. Hudson got up from her scrubbing and glanced toward the window. The sun remained high and bright; it was barely noon, far too early for the new owners to come calling, and she still had plenty to do. "Who is it?" she called.

"I'm looking for Hudson." The voice was as brusque as the knock, and full of self-importance. Mrs. Hudson frowned as she crossed the room. At the door she met a pair of piercing gray eyes, a beakish nose like some sort of great carnivorous bird, an imperious frown, a grown man's pomposity in the figure of a tall and gangling boy. His clothes were good but well-worn, as if handed down from several older and less long-limbed relatives; his cuffs were frayed, his shoes spattered with mud, and his slender hands clenched into fists at his sides.

"Mr. Hudson died in the spring," she said crisply. "I'm sorry you've had to come such a long way to find it out. Can I offer you a cup of tea before you get on your way?"

An instant's startlement flashed across the narrow face. The boy glanced at his shoes, and his expression softened briefly. "Thank you, yes," he said, more courteously. "I have come a long way on very serious business. However, the Hudson I mean was alive and well not three weeks ago, in Norfolk."

"Ah, that'll be the elder," Mrs. Hudson sighed. "Come in then, I'll put the kettle on."

 

"You have sold the family business," said the young man. He held his teacup perched on the ends of his long fingers as his gray eyes roamed the room. "But Hudson was a sailor."

Mrs. Hudson dusted off a second chair and sat down across from him. "Hudson was," she agreed. "Stanley wasn't, nor Hudson the younger. My Harry was always a bright boy, and my father having no sons left his business in our hands when he passed on."

"Your parents showed young Hudson every kindness."

She nodded. "They lived on the next street from us. His mother died when we were small, and his father drank. We did what we could."

"His father's activities gave you no trouble?"

"Of course, they troubled Harry's soul. But he knew he'd get nothing from us, and long ago gave up trying."

"How fortunate." The gray eyes lighted on her a moment, then took up their wandering again. "Then you haven't heard from him?"

"Not a peep."

"I see." Abruptly the youngster leaned forward and set his teacup, still nearly full, upon the table. "Then I apologize for wasting your time. Thank you for the tea."

In one swift movement he was afoot and halfway across the room. Mrs. Hudson hurried after him, her own teacup clattering into its saucer. "But wait," she called. "I didn't get your name."

At the doorway he turned, and the sunlight from the window caught a gleam in his eye. "The name is Holmes, dear lady," he said. "Sherlock Holmes."

With that he swept from the room and left the door rattling behind him.

 

Three days later, as she swept her front doorstep, young Mr. Holmes appeared again. He exited a cab at the newsstand across the street, dressed less like a scarecrow and more like the younger son of a noble if no longer wealthy family. His coat barely strained across his youthful shoulders, his shoes were brushed, his hair oiled and topped with an elderly but well-cared-for silk top hat. Mrs. Hudson straightened from her work to watch him approach.

"Mr. Holmes, I perceive," she called as he drew near.

"Mrs. Hudson." He stopped, doffed the hat, and bowed neatly, just a shade too formally for a lady of her station.

A smile tugged at her lips. "Any luck with the hunting?"

"None, I'm afraid." His features clouded. "The goose has well and truly flown."

"Well I'd say I'm sorry for you," she said, "but none as sought that man ever had any good come of it."

"On the contrary." His face cleared, and he smiled. "I believe I have been most fortunate."

"Is that so?" She couldn't help but return the smile. The boy had a certain charm.

"It is. I understand you have rooms to let."

"I do indeed, at that. You're needing a place in the city?"

"I am a student at St. Bartholomew's."

"A doctor, then?"

The smile became enigmatic. "A scientist."

"I see. Well, come on up and have a look."

He followed her up the narrow staircase. At the top she pushed open the door and stood aside to let him pass. "Sitting room, fireplace, lots of light, not too much noise from the street. One bedroom upstairs and one through there. Kitchen, you can see." Her voice trailed off as he walked into the center of the room and stood, slowly turning in place, his eyes gathering detail she could only imagine. "Furnished, if you like. Housekeeping provided."

He stopped then and looked at her, wearing his enigmatic smile. "You lived here yourself once."

She felt herself blush. "I was a girl, here, briefly. But my parents were a well-matched couple; after the fourth child, my father had to find larger quarters, and he let this one out."

"But you mean to return. Why housekeeping, when you could have retained your father's business?"

"I've always taken care of people. My father, my sisters, my husband. Can't seem to stop after all this time." Her chest tightened with sudden emotion; she smiled brightly, but knew he was not fooled.

"I shall try not to take too much advantage," he said cordially.

"Very well," she said. "But you ought to find a flatmate. It's big for a young man all on his own; you'd be better off with a bit of company your own age."

He smiled again. "Mrs. Hudson, I shall keep it in mind."

 

_1891_

Mrs. Hudson sat perched on the edge of the armchair, clutching her damp handkerchief in both hands. The room smelled of tobacco, gun oil, wood smoke. The wallpaper frayed where he'd fired the Queen's initials into it. A knife on the mantlepiece held its clutch of letters as if their owner had only set them aside for a moment. Fresh tears spilled from her eyes, running into the gentle lines that had formed around her nose and mouth, reminders of how much time had passed since she'd first seen him folded into this chair like a cat grinning in the sun.

"Oh, Mr. Holmes," she wept. "I will miss you so terribly."

From the bottom of the stairs came a loud knock. Mrs. Hudson wiped her eyes and hurried down to answer the door. The gentleman who stood there was massive, broad as her late tenant was lean, impeccably dressed and leaning upon a silver-headed cane. She had met the elder Holmes brother only once, and briefly, but the similarity of his eyes - and the grief in them - would have given him away even if she hadn't been expecting him.

"Mr. Holmes," she said. "You wanted to see your brother's rooms."

"Thank you," he said. His voice was deep and placid where the other's was shrill, and he moved with studied calm as they climbed the stairs. Once inside, he stood much as his brother had all those years ago, turning in place while his gray gaze took in every detail. "You must keep it precisely as it is," he said.

"I beg your pardon?"

"His rooms. They must remain precisely as he left them."

"But whatever for?"

"A quirk of mine, I'm afraid. Runs in the family, these little eccentricities. You'll be paid, of course, as always, with ten percent more for your trouble."

"But I - Mr. Holmes, I don't - What -"

"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson," he interrupted. "You have been a most welcome influence in my brother's life. He always spoke most highly of you, and I can see his admiration was not unwarranted."

Weak in the knees, Mrs. Hudson lowered herself back into the armchair.

"My thanks again," said the monolith. "I will show myself out."

She listened as the stairs creaked under his bulk, as the front door opened and shut behind him. She looked around the room once more.

"Precisely as he left them, is it? In that case, best do something about all this dust."

 

_1903_

Mrs. Hudson picked up her bucket and brush and looked around 221b for the last time. The floor was scrubbed within an inch of its life; the windows sparkled. The V.R. had been patched over, though she would always know each bullet hole by heart. The furniture made ghosts beneath its protective draping. She turned away with a sigh.

Mr. Holmes was retiring to the country, and to everyone's surprise, Mrs. Hudson had decided to go with him. With no game afoot at 221b, London seemed a dull place, and playing landlady to new tenants an exhausting proposition. Instead, her childhood home would be turned over to a manager, overseen by the elder Holmes, so that it would continue to provide her a comfortable income. With her one remaining sister in faraway Australia, and Dr. Watson safely married, she would go to the one place she might still be needed.

From the doorway she glanced back one final time. Many adventures had begun here. A stage in all their lives was ended. Sussex would be quiet by comparison. But she very much doubted that the excitement was over for good.

With a smile on her lips she left the flat and shut the door behind her.

**Author's Note:**

> With apologies to Laurie R. King.


End file.
